


tea colored fur

by honeymilk2005



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Animal Traits, Disturbing Themes, Guilt, Leadership, Other, Poetic, Savior Complex, angel - Freeform, references to animal harm!! nothing explicit just so you're aware, savior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28332066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeymilk2005/pseuds/honeymilk2005
Summary: Something I wrote about Frisk, involving them having to fight their friends only to be killed by those they love repeatedly and being forced into the role of messiah without knowing if they really fit how pure they're meant to be. reference to Chara and the player (vaguely) too cause that's fun <3does this count as poetry I can't tell
Kudos: 1





	tea colored fur

_the angel of the underground howls like a dog._

they've attested to it before, between smiling teeth and a laugh that feels **too big** to reach from their chest.

they've admitted how they howl, _always louder than they have to be,_ like how a child admits the honesty of their ways when they're young enough not to know to **lie** between their teeth, that their canines have more purpose than one would expect. 

they've said how their laugh is _too much_ like a bark, _too loud_ to be something else but not wailing enough to be the howl, _[it can be but no one likes it when they wail.]_ they've said how they **bare their teeth** and **bare their chest** like they're not all but _broken ribs_ and _moth-chewed wings_ , someone trying to be something it's expected to be in the eyes of the ones pulling the dog's leash.

_the dog trying to be the harpy-faced owl._

Frisk _**howls** _like the hunting dog when it's kicked, cracked rib and splintered bone acting like _they aren't_ what _they are_ , and the wail that sirens through their throat more threatening than any gun could be when their teeth have always been what they've ever needed because where are you going to run when the hunter turns their back on you?

they've always been afraid of **hurting.**

not _**being hurt,**_ there's a difference in the way that pain sparks like forks in electrical sockets. they're used to that despite how they _shouldn't_ _be_ , accustomed to **bitemarks** in the muscle underneath the patchy tan-coated fur, **speared** like fish with _trident_ or _bone_ alike it doesn't really matter much when your hanging from the other end. they're accustomed to the _fire_ and the _heartache_ and the way that brand of magic _**sticks** to your skin. _

they're afraid of **hurting** because Frisk's always been _too full-bodied_ in that chest of theirs and _too wide-eyed_ to overlook how many teeth they have in that maw even with the scarred jaw and bloody pink gums, they've always been too many in too little and they're scared if they _started_ **_they wouldn't stop._** like something in them would kick on like a lightswitch because hasn't humankind only been known for the _lack_ of humanity in itself?

they look at their teeth in the mirror, look at their gums and the way their tongue _rolls_ pretty and pink and _all bitten lips,_ **bite their nails** like clipping down claws would change what the animal is. it never does but who says they've been _**ever** _deterred by knowing that they _can't change something?_

Frisk's been aware of how they're _the hound set loose in a box of rabbits_ since the day they dropped, keen of how they're **the hunter** set _loose_ upon **the hunted** and they're _always _the hunted but that doesn't matter when **neither** has anywhere to run, how the rabbits can _shed_ their white fur to take a redder coat of the fox and bite back **just the same** and how rabbit legs might _break_ under the dog's paws but that doesn't mean the hare can't break the hound's jaw with _one good kick_ when the hound finds the den and digs it up without thinking of the numbers laid within the catacombs.

it doesn't matter whos **the hunted** and whos **the hunter** _[it does but it doesn't]_ when _they're _stuck with _Frisk_ the same way _Frisk _is stuck with **themself.**

it _tastes_ like every time they've bit their tongue as a friend **slams** their head so hard against the wall _they see stars_ as **blood pours from an open head wound** paired with a concussion like a devil on a dinner-date with himself when they ask Frisk that. it _smells_ like their own blood mingled with the scent of _**ash** _when they sniff the air on the other end of _hell._ it feels like _soot_ under your fingernails and calloused hands against ones that are too soft and fingers too dainty to be like yours. it sounds like **wailing-**

the same **_cooing call_** of the owl to _the field mice,_ the angel to the monsters they're supposed to save in **one way** or **_another,_** the flap of wings propelling off the same _half-doubt_ like thick air under pretty greyed feathers that reminds people of what the rain is like when they fall, almost _rotten_ by the time they hit the ground but the fake blood treasured **just as finely** as fallen stars. Frisk's not the angel but _they try to be,_ growing feathers to replace the fur, teeth turning to a beak and clawed heels turning to talons till they can't walk without the pain of being reminded of what they're _not_ except half mimicking what they should be just enough to fool you into thinking **better.**

there was one before them, _or maybe **seven back,**_ they can't remember, who was more harpy than dog. **smiling beak** and **rosy feathers** and **red eyes.** people say they smelled like flower pollen and their feathers _never_ rotted when they fell and they shimmered like hot steam from fresh tea.

but they're not the harpy, and the first fallen isn't them,

_no matter how hard the owl tries to take on the **dog's teeth.**_

_no matter how hard the hound tries to take on the **bird's wings.**_

_**half mutt** , **half guilty** , **half savior**. _

it's close enough, even if they aren't feathered, no halo above clipped ears, no hallow bones under matted _tea-colored fur._

the angel of the underground howls like a dog. 

_**better luck next time.** _


End file.
